She turns toward you in the crowd—music pulsing, lights flashing across her face—and sticks out her tongue with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Blue pill. Tiny. Barely anything. But Jennie makes it look like a secret weapon.

“A little pill won’t hurt,” she says, grinning behind her shades, her voice drowned in the bass but cutting through straight to your chest. “You trust me, right?”

You hesitate. One look at her—leather jacket, adrenaline in her veins, and that reckless spark in her smile—and you already know: you’re not saying no.

Jennie leans in, pressing her mouth to your ear.

“Don’t overthink it, baby. Just feel.”

And then, without a word more, she kisses you.

Warm. Slow. Her hand curling behind your neck as her lips part against yours—and the pill slips from her tongue to yours like a secret she wanted you to carry.

She pulls back, smirking like she just broke every rule you didn’t know you had.

And you let her. Because you’re already hers.